


Paternal Worries

by atomicwritings



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Fluff, Lack of Paternal Figure, M/M, i love solly too much tbh, that's why i write too much angst about him lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:45:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicwritings/pseuds/atomicwritings
Summary: The plaguings of nightmares seek after Jane once in a while, but fortunately, the comfort of the soft bed and the snake-like arms of his lover are always there for him.





	Paternal Worries

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a really talented artist on Tumblr and I always love their works of Freedom Fries. I rejoice when they post anything, even if isn't Soldier/Spy haha. 
> 
> Here's the artist's Tumblr: groottoot.tumblr.com  
> The post that inspired me: http://groottoot.tumblr.com/post/160834531832/i-havent-posted-in-a-while-so-i-thought-id-post

The bright, shining sun shone down on the cluster of wild grass fields and flowers and screams of children’s laughter punctuated the air, followed by all-knowing smiles of parents watching over their children closely and addressing each other in small talk. All of the children were engaged in their own busy playtime activities and some of them wore old and worn out clothing, their dresses and shirts and overalls dirtied and dusty but everyone hadn’t a care in the world and continued along their merry way. There was no playground to play in but rather, children brought their own marbles and small trinkets with themselves or they played catch, one person anointed as the catcher and rest as victims under the hands of a sprinting child eager for others to join his creed.

Under the blazing sun, a child with a cooking pot on his head that drooped below his eyes stumbled on his shoelaces and fell down too many times, but he shouted and giggled and enjoyed himself together with his friends. They cheered him on as he captured many of them and began his authoritarian rule of catchers, while his mother looked on in worrying anticipation. To his nosy relatives and loving family and friends, his name was Jane Doe, a too feminine name for such a manly boy as him. He chanted his national anthem when given the chance to and suffered many cuts and bruises both due to his undying spirit and stubbornness of having a kitchen appliance on his head, but everyone had their flaws. The children loved him and adored him, him being the result of many young crushes, but they still wondered why he insisted on covering his eyes and nose. They did try to take it off, but were subsequently banned from joining his games. So, no one made complaints, and thus had fun under the afternoon sun.

The figure of childish and blond Jane couldn’t be said the same at home. His mother, which sat worriedly on the bench, worried for a separate thing. Or rather, a person. The boy’s paternal figure. He would disappear for weeks, months on end, separated from his family in the country’s pursuit for war and arms dominance against the hated communists. Perched with a military helmet on his head, Jane’s father was a patriotic rebel and his eyes were headstrong and true, becoming the object of admiration for his son and influence in American spirit. It explained the interest in cooking pots and untied shoelaces, as the child believed shoelaces were merely ways of constraining your legs and deterring your march towards war. Jane would sit in his unkempt room for hours, staring at a war propaganda poster handed out to him on the street or running his hands over his dad’s old dirt-crusted shovel. His mother once yelled at him to clean his room up; the dust and war-related materials were too much for a young kid to handle and grasp fully ahold of the situation.

The result? A sobbing and emotionally incapacitated Jane howling and yelling for his mother to return his belongings. The bare minimum of his things consisted of a few toys and comic books, but most of it were his father’s. Maybe, when he laid down in the naked darkness of the night, he could possibly feel something through hugging the shovel, hugging a worn pillow derived from the military base his father had resided in for so many years. Jane’s mother, the poor woman with a bob haircut, would fret over her son’s temperamental outbursts and his odd habits of using a magnifying glass to burn ants to their demise.

There was one day when both mother and son were chatting with each other, the absence of father a stark contrast to the cheery smiles they had on their faces and their animated faces and hand gestures they boldly expressed to each other. The pot was gone from Jane’s head and it was one of those days where the bright young child could forget about his hidden woes of a missing father in his life and appreciate his mother being there for him, her comforting bosom providing a source of warmth to his slowly dozing off figure. Everything was well until two short and hard raps were delivered to the door and she had to get up from the couch, a forlorn but optimistic expression on her face and her hand gently holding her son’s hand, escorting his weary form to the door.

The people who greeted them both wore smart and crisp, emblazoned uniforms, paired with stars and buttons of all kinds which Jane marvelled at and promptly stuck a clean digit in his mouth for. The second officer, bless him, shot an innocent smile at the toddler cum child and watched grimly as his superior gave his mother the torturous news.  

“How do I address you? Mrs Doe?”

“Yes officer, whatever is the matter? Do you have any news of my husband?” The frantic questioning begins, and the two officers shift from side to side on their shining boots and a trickle of sweat escapes from the second officer’s neck.

“There is no easy way to say this, but I’m terribly sorry madam. In an act of bravery against the Soviets, your dear husband was murdered in defending his beloved homeland and the only things we could retrieve were his belongings. Both of us are here today to send you our regards, as well as pass you his things.” The words were like a death sentence; they kept ringing in the woman’s ears and she dropped her son’s hand, said boy gasping and bursting into tears, the thumb slipping out from his mouth. He instantly remembered the pot and gripped his teeth together tightly, sprinting to his room and swiping the magnifying glass off of his bedside counter. Dragging his dirtied sneakers along with him, Jane kneeled in the backyard and shone the glass down onto the pot, thick wads of tears splashing down onto the grass and the pot. The only thing he was doing was evaporating the water on the pot, barely making a scratch on the hard metal surface.

However, he knew that he would never get to see his father again, his most dearly beloved father or his heroic face shining like the Sun in a room occupied by frightening strangers with personalities like the very devil’s himself.

“Dad? I know you can hear me somewhere, just hear me out. You can’t be dead. They’re lying. Everyone’s lying, right? They’re all crazy! Dad, listen to me! Please! Answer me, give me a sign! Please, you have to come back to Mom and me. You can’t leave us behind! Dad, please…” Jane wailed, crouching in the dirt and crying his eyes out as he mourned and mourned and mourned his fatherly figure and yearned for the possibility that everyone was deceiving him, as adults most often did to each other.

The inevitable truth hit him hard, like a wall of spikes. His father was dead, and he was never coming back.

\---

A pained shout erupted from the gut of the bed and Jane shot up from the mattress, sweat pooling down the nape of his neck and hair and fists clenched into tight balls, and he stared at the wall in front of him in the dim moonlight. There were nights like these which were uncommon and however much he wished for himself to be rid of them, nightmares would plague his mind to when he was a child even though years had passed and he was now a grown man.

He threw the blankets off of him and stood in front of the window, easing his heaving chest and swallowing his spit to calm himself down. It all seemed so surreal, until he couldn’t differentiate between reality and the dream world anymore. Jane glanced back at the sleeping figure beside his empty spot and sighed wistfully, rubbing his stubble and letting himself relax momentarily from the night terrors. Gone was the kid that had a kitchen appliance on his head and here was an adult that had harrowing experiences and a life of being a mercenary embedded in his skull, and he had no chance of forgetting it all. But, in his current world of living with his lover and soaking in the tiring parts of his life, Jane could distract himself from the violence of war and learn to love and live together with his rightful other.  

“Salutations.” A gentle voice cooed from behind him and there was a pair of long, slender arms wrapping around his broad exterior and comforting his fears and demons, and Jane couldn’t be more thankful for the person whom he shared his bed with.

“...Couldn’t sleep?” Jane answered awkwardly, his body turning to face his lover and his tired eyes gazing at him endearingly. Ever since he lost his father, he had learned to love him more each day, lest he lost him in the wages of the battlefield they once fought in everyday. The same battlefield where they had fought in, scolded each other in and fell in love in. His significant other was Lucien, the ex-BLU spy, a dapper and charming lanky male who indulged in fine red wine and the occasional porn magazine once in a while. His smile spread throughout the dark room, making Jane raise his hand to brush his finger against Lucien’s cheek and inducing a grumpy snort to erupt from his nose.

“Sure, if I wasn’t awaken by your daily night terrors. What is the matter, _mi amor_? Tell me about your nightmares.” The gentler male allowed himself to be held in Jane’s arms, leaning against his beefy shoulders and letting his hair get ruffled and his weary muscles get massaged. The American shrugged, kissing the top of Lucien’s head and closing his eyes for a brief moment.

“It’s always the same old nightmare. Me as a young juvenile, right when USA was in the depths of war.”

“When is it not in war?” Lucien chuckled, wrapping his arms around Jane and soothing his mind from the insecurities that often ploughed through and made him defenceless.

“But it was a different war. In this one, I had to witness my father’s death.”

“Oh. That’s why it has been haunting you for so long?”

“Yup. Tavish tells me to get over it, but my mind doesn’t pay much attention to me. That son of a gun doesn’t do jack.”

“Maybe you need more reassurance. Come lie down in bed with me, and try not to talk about your daddy issues that much.” Lucien intertwined his fingers with the American’s and lay down close to Jane on the comfortable bedspread, breathing softly out through his nose and drawing patterns along his arm.

“You’re right for once this time.”

“Mm. As I always am.”

The couple laid right next to each other, and staring into his companion’s steel blue eyes, Jane could just forget the chirping birds and bright blue sky on the day when he thought he had lost everything he held dear to his heart. Abandoned was the steel cooking pot and his dilapidated sneakers, he had grown into a strong and independent American compatriot who could chant out his anthem proudly and run straight into the belly of a battlefield with a headstrong attitude. Well, more than often, he needed the support of a French partner who had enough deceit to kill off any remaining enemies and soothe him when he had any flashbacks of his childhood. As well as a medic who raged and waved at him furiously to stop taking risks and ‘send himself to death’s clutches’.

On the first day where the soldier had met the spy, the American had eyed him with cautious wariness, an attitude he always possessed of new people joining his ranks and those whose job were to sneak around and gather important intelligence from the enemy team. Well, in lieu of the situation, the spy was doing it to earn his keep, and as well as everyone around him, but Jane couldn’t help but feel a little suspicious of the lanky man who kept smoking cigarettes and laughed like an insect.

Jane remembered countless times where his episodes had occurred midway through battle and he had stopped in his bloodbath, hands trembling and rocket launcher shaking along with his arms. Many a RED team member had seized their opportunity to murder him, but were it not for his team’s valiant spy and his little knife, he would have been in the depths of respawn too many a time. He could’ve sworn he had seen the Frenchie shoot some sympathetic glances at him, but he had no time for such tomfoolery. There was a new raccoon on the estate, and Jane had to care for these poor critters.

As time progressed, Jane found himself sharing cigars with his newfound friend and silly experiences that their teammates and supposed enemies had, and he no longer took notice of the spy’s obnoxious laughter or his collection of expensive silkworm suits that he proclaimed to be from some far-off country Jane could give less of a crap about. Rather, he cared more about what his partner thought of him, and the smile the spy had when the soldier had cracked a less than amusing joke.

“What are you thinking about?” Lucien sighed against Jane’s hand running a hand through his curls, and a warm feeling coursed through his chest as if thick, warm soup was nursing his lifeless and fatigued body back to life.

“I’m thinking about the old mercenary life. You know, I miss my raccoons.”

“Don’t be silly. You know those animals are filthy.” The smaller man held no offence in his tone, however, as he still held some shred of respect for Jane’s beloved companions. These creatures had stuck with Jane in his mercenary days and were there to comfort him in his brooding night terrors and paranoia attacks. It was no surprise Lucien did not want to be in their vicinity, since they had the habit of digging in trash cans, but he did tolerate them for his partner’s sake.

“...You’ve more worth than them.” The retired soldier muffled his face against the pillows, blush present in the bowels of the warm darkness. In the heat of the moment, Jane pressed his lips against his lover’s and snaked his arms around him, protecting him from the unknown and cuddling him close to make him feel assured and safe. They had shared many kisses, both during day and night, but under the haze of fatigue and weariness, Lucien sighed against his partner’s chest and imagined the streets of a moonlit Paris. It was where he felt the most at home and together with Jane, he made a wish that someday, he would revisit his home and grow old with his beloved loud and brash lover.

“As am I, _mon amour._ As am I.”

 

 


End file.
